


New Year, New You

by Vrunka



Series: Robocop AUs [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Dubious Consent, Frottage, M/M, age gap, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-07 01:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15207377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: “Your friends put you up to this,” Hank asks. Eyes narrowed. Not biting the bait being dangled so temptingly before him.The guy’s face doesn’t even twitch. No hint of shame on being called out, guileless. He tips his head, like he’s processing the thought. Then he smiles.





	New Year, New You

**Author's Note:**

> The graphic violence tag isn’t for fun, this isn’t quite my usual tone for these two.

Hank is used to this sort of attention. The fawning, the light glances, teasing edges of not quite obvious flirting. When he was younger and in his prime, wearing his uniform with his shiny badge and his lapels sharp enough to cut, he got this sort of shit from men and women alike.

But he’s old now.

Should barely be a blip on anyone’s radar.

Let alone this one.

The man is...well he’s fucking gorgeous isn’t he? Youthful and handsome and lean. Skinny arms and tousled hair. All effortless oozing sexiness that Hank knows from experience takes practice and hours of work.

He watched his ex-wife in the mirror often enough. Hairspray and ice masks and subtle contouring.

The man winks, not quite smoothly, but with enough cheek that it catches Hank’s eye. He tips his head back, downing his liquor; even with the distance of the bar Hank can see his throat moving. Hypnotic. When his gaze meets Hank’s once again, the color is high on his face, reddened and leeching down his neck.

He stands.

He approaches.

What the fuck? What in the actual hell?

“Hey there,” the stranger says. Leaning on the bar, the long, thin line of him. Enough distance he isn’t encroaching on Hank’s space, but close enough Hank can count the small freckles and moles the dot his torso. See-through shirts, what happened to this generation’s damn modesty? But Hank’s also not looking away so...

“You wanna buy me a drink,” the guy asks, “I seem to have lost mine.”

Hank snorts which gets the guy smiling. He has a nice smile, youthful. Too young maybe? It’s so fucking hard to tell these days sometimes, fake IDs and hacked data cards.

“Your friends put you up to this,” Hank asks. Eyes narrowed. Not biting the bait being dangled so temptingly before him.

The guy’s face doesn’t even twitch. No hint of shame on being called out, guileless. He tips his head, like he’s processing the thought. Then he smiles. “No. You see me here with anyone else?”

“No. Look just. I’m tryin’ to drink in peace huh? So maybe—“

“I can treat then,” the guy says, seamlessly. Swallowing over a grin. A lewd little shift to his eyebrows. “I’m flexible.”

Hank can guess that he is. All those muscles in his stomach, beautiful and sloping. Strong shoulders. Jaw chiseled from marble. Flexible.

And stubborn.

Which Hank begrudgingly admires.

But he’s too old. He’s too used up. Too too too—

“A whiskey for my friend here,” the stranger says, leaning over the bar. Fingers catching lightly against the android bartender’s elbow.

Hank hates these things, generally avoids them as a rule of thumb. But even Jimmy has family to attend to on New Years and the part timer who takes his place cut Hank off two hours ago.

So he’s here with the rest of the directionless bums and kids hopping shitholes for want of any of Detroit’s more expensive clubs. Like this kid—and it is kid now, firmly in Hank’s mind, doctored ID to get him through the door like it’s the early 2000s all over again—who is too pretty to be scraping the bottom of the barrel like this.

“You don’t have to do that,” Hank says. His hand reaching out automatically to brace against the kid’s shoulder. Stopping just short of touching. Heat filling the scant inches between the skin of his palm and that bare, curving space.

“But I want to. If you won’t treat me. Flexible, I told you. One drink with me, just one, if you still find my company so disagreeable after well...I’ll split, okay?”

He’ll split. Split. Like a banana or an old time gangster. Endearing terminology that’s just slightly slightly idiosyncratic with the image he exudes.

Hank relaxes against the bar, shoulders slumping somewhat. Never one to turn down free booze even if the guy is young enough to be his—

No. No. Not going there tonight. Not tonight. He dwells there enough. The attic can be closed for one night, the cellar of his depression left unplumbed. He grabs the drink up when the android bartender places it in front of him.

He closes his eyes and drinks.

“So what’s your name anyway, kiddo?”

The guy’s nose wrinkles at the name. His eyes flitter down the length of Hank’s neck and up, up to meet his gaze.

“Connor,” he says.

It fits. He looks like a Connor. It’s a good fake. Or the kid’s just stupidly honest, could be either.

“Connor,” Hank says. Like he’s trying it on for size. Tasting how fucking easy it rolls off his tongue.

The kid leans into his space, one leg brushing Hank’s where it is bent against the bar. Purposeful. His hand lands on Hank’s thigh, squeezing teasingly at the muscle. Overly familiar. His skin hot enough Hank can feel it through the thick material of his jeans.

“I like the way you say my name,” Connor offers. His fingers work, pressure pressure along Hank’s inseam. “I’d love to hear you moan it—“

Hank catches the hand before it can cup him more fully. He drags at the skinny wrist until Connor is no longer touching him. Skinny? Hank’s fingers twitch. The wrist in his grip is actually surprisingly sturdy feeling.

He lets it drop from his hand.

Connor frowns.

“You’re...outta your league, kid. I’m—“

—out of yours. Way out. So far, far, far, far out that I may as well be Jupiter and you’re the goddamn sun—

“—I’m old enough to be your father, got it? There’s younger tail to keep you interested somewhere in this town I’m sure.”

Connor smirks. “You aren’t anything like my father.”

Hank’s sure he isn’t. But opens up some possibilities. Reliving teenage rebellion. Got to college out from under daddy’s thumb and found a whole slew of opportunities to disappoint him.

“Still—“

“Still nothing. It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Connor says. “I just...I...” he pauses, eyes narrowed. “You aren’t that old and I...I like your face.”

“Gee thanks. You should greet all your perspective one night stands that way. Very endearing.”

Connor swallows. His fingers slide across the bar top. Little fidgeting ticks. Hank can see it now: the ADHD diagnoses, trouble concentrating in school, Daddy Dearest with the heavy hand.

“You seem pretty endeared. You haven’t left yet.”

“I was here first.”

The kid grins. “Come on,” he says. “Don’t you know how to have a little fun, Lieutenant?”

It’s like ice along Hank’s veins. Being dropped head first into a vat of freezing water. Killing any buzz he was starting to build.

“How the fuck do you know what I do?”

Connor hasn’t moved, still leaning on the bar all easy grace and elbows. Either ignorant to, or unafraid of the storm brewing on Hank’s face. The warning signs. He picks a nail, idle motion. He’s looking at the ground though. Some of that earlier aloof sexiness dropped away.

“So I...look it’s not weird, okay? I’m not stalking you or or or anything.”

Which is exactly what a stalker would say, but Hank doesn’t offer that quip.

Connor touches the back of his neck. “I...I went to the Academy for like a couple of years. I’ve written a paper on you, Lieutenant Anderson. Well...sort of. The cop who put down one of the biggest red ice rings in the city. You’re like a hero you know?”

Jesus. Jesus there’s a lot to unpack there. Too much. Hank can feel his pulse in his jaw, right along under his beard. Flickering hard enough he can also feel it behind his eyes. He needs a cigarette, suddenly, viciously.

“I’m not fit to be anybody’s hero, kid. You’re barking up the wrong fucking tree.”

“I don’t think that’s true at all.”

“Good thing I’m not asking then.” He stands. Throws two twenties onto the bar top. Too much, honestly, a fucking nice tip for the android that won’t even get to keep the money. God, God he wishes he were just at Jimmy’s. This stuff never happens there.

The floor sort of tilts under him. Alcohol hitting his knees.

And Connor, stubborn, dumb asshole, braces a hand on Hank’s shoulder, keeps him from tipping too far forward.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to...to make you uncomfortable.”

“Jesus Christ, kid. You don’t take a hint, do you?”

“I’ve been told that my dog-like persistence in my goals is admirable.”

“And your goal is?”

Connor blinks. Seems to consider. “You, Lieutenant. Maybe it’s dumb but I’ve...I’ve had a—well and when I saw you I just...I thought. Thought what’s the harm in trying.”

There’s something genuine in the way he says it. Big brown eyes meeting Hank’s, fingers trembling where they are holding Hank’s shoulder. Those hot, hot fingers. Christ the kid is like a furnace.

“You really mean that shit, don’t you?”

“I do.”

Which is crazy. Crazy. Things like this don’t happen in real life. These coincidences. Happy accidents.

“Let me go, Connor, I need some air.”

Those eyes narrow. He takes a breath, holds it for a second and then says, “You sure you’re going to be able to walk? You’re leaning pretty heavily on me.”

Which...shit, he’s right but—

Hank grabs the bar, cranes himself upright. Frowning as he steadies himself. “You see, kid,” he says. Matter of fact. “You don’t really want to fuck this. I’m an old goddamn alcoholic. Can’t even walk straight.”

But there’s something soft in Connor’s face as he watches Hank. Something in his big doe eyes. Hank looks away. He stalks outside.

Maybe he should be surprised when Connor follows but he isn’t really. The picture is all but painted. The stubborn streak, maybe doing the wrong thing, sticking to his guns in the wrong place and getting the boot from the police academy. More disappointment from old dad. Family fights at Thanksgiving and Christmas.

The air hits Hank like a bullet. January first. Happy fucking New Year. Freezing cold wind on his cheeks and his throat and his hands. Worming under his jacket as he shuffles to fish out a cigarette.

The crisp cold night air makes the flame on his lighter shudder and curl. It’s Connor’s hand that cups around it. Connor’s gentle face flickering reds and yellows in the light.

“I thought I told you to beat it.”

“I will, Lieutenant. I just want to make sure you’re all right.”

Of course he does. Of course.

Hank pulls deep deep deep from the cigarette, holds the smoke in his lungs for a long moment before sighing it out through his nose.

“Can I have a drag?” Connor asks. Hank had been staring at the kid’s stupid shirt. All that see-through mesh. He must be fucking freezing already. Hank can see the prickling gooseflesh. Not dressed for January Detroit weather for sure. But he isn’t shivering yet so—

Hank takes another quick pull, plucks the cigarette from between his lips, is halfway through twirling it around to offer it to Connor when Connor moves. Steps closer, knees bumping Hank’s, shoulder colliding with Hank’s chest. His

Lips

His lips

On Hank’s

Slightly parted and soft and warm, pressing against Hank as Hank exhales in surprise, and Connor is kissing him and catching all that smoke in his own mouth sucking-sucking it from Hank’s and Connor’s hands on Hank’s ears and breathing in Hank’s air.

The kid’s heat is engulfing. Practically burning where he is gripping Hank’s head still. Where Hank’s own traitorous hands have fallen to brace on Connor’s slim hips.

Connor pulls his head back. Smoke pluming from between his lips. Billowing out into the air. Hank watches the phantom of it drifting up and up and away.

“Sorry,” Connor says.

The cigarette is a dead soldier, accepting its fate on the snowbank next to the building. And Hank tries so hard not to litter. But the surprise had knocked his fingers stiff and now that cigarette pays the price.

Hank sighs. Breath condensing, shimmering up into the air to join Connor’s smoke. Connor grins, he exhales.

He exhales.

Hank’s eyes narrow.

Connor is breathing, his chest is moving. He’s breathing but there isn’t anything...

“How old did you say you were, kid?”

“I didn’t and I’m thirty-one.”

Sounds like bullshit. Hank’s fingers twitch where they are still holding neatly onto Connor’s hips. A perfect fit. The bones pressed so snugly against Hank’s palms. The feeling of wrongness goes nowhere. That sinking, sinking feeling. Uncanny valley and too easy coincidences.

“Take me home, Hank,” Connor says—first time he’s used his first name and the soft way he says it does things to Hank’s head that no fifty-year old should experience, a looping, back-flipping sensation, light and shuddering. “I’ll be good for you, I promise.”

“Kid—“

“Connor.”

“Connor I...I shouldn’t. I can’t. You’re too young for me.”

“I’m not. You can. You’re projecting. You clearly want me too, or you’d have told me to fuck off when I first approached. You would have ignored me staring at you.”

He’s still pressed so close. All that warmth leeching into Hank’s skin. His lips parted and pink and inviting.

“Or you’d have punched me for kissing you. I want to kiss you again, Hank,” Connor says. Voice dipping in a calculated way. That smooth, suave act from earlier. He touches Hank’s beard, running his fingers through the salt and pepper hair.

Persistent, persistent.

And it’s been so long since someone has touched Hank with anything more than intent to harm.

He cannot control the way he leans into the touch. The heavy turn in his breathing. Puffing between them in the cold night air.

“All you have to say is yes, Hank.”

All he has to say is yes. He shouldn’t.

But he does.

“Follow me,” Hank says. Connor’s hand is gripping his cheek now, cupping it. And he’s so fucking warm, almost deliriously so. And Hank’s breath is misting between them. Hank’s breath.

He’s too drunk for this. Too drunk to drive. But he leads the two of them to his car in the shitty little parking lot out back behind the bar and he lets Connor crowd him against the freezing metal.

Connor’s lips on his neck, sucking and biting. The material of Connor’s shirt sliding between Hank’s fingers like water. Like silk. Or spider webs.

Connor pushes the two of them down into the backseat, shoves Hank roughly until the two of them are squished together across the bench. It cuts out the wind but it’s still cold as shit. Hank can feel his own teeth chattering.

And Connor is—

Hank’s brain shuts the thought down before it can start. Instead of the question he wants to ask he says: “You’re clean, right, kid?”

Connor tilts his head. He smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I am.”

And the other question, the more pressing looming awful question gets shoved to the side. Forgotten under the weight of Connor’s hands ripping his belt off. The buckle catches on the passenger headrest, knocks against the window.

Hank flinches and Connor’s fingers smooth up under his jacket, Connor’s voice in his ear, a soothing hiss.

“It’s okay, Hank, I’ve got you. You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

Syrup-sweet. Someone who is not Hank might appreciate the sentiment, the obvious hero worship; but Hank wasn’t lying when he called it the wrong tree. He didn’t do what he did all those years ago for the glory or the praise.

Hank’s got his fingers in Connor’s mouth, shoving down on Connor’s tongue to get the kid to shut up, when Connor shivers into him with a liquid moan. Rutting his cock against Hank’s hip. Fully hard already from the feel.

Thirty-one Hank’s goddamn ass.

In his lap, the kid is all slithering heat. Flexible he had said and he’s proving it now. His back bent to keep from jamming his head into the sedan’s low roof, one leg slung over Hank’s hip, hanging down into the backseat foot well for balance. And hands hands hands just everywhere, gripping Hank’s skin beneath his clothes as Connor moans and moans.

Hank’s jeans are around his knees. His cell is out of his pocket, he hears it thump against the floor of the cab, the heavy body of it an outdated model Fowler keeps nagging him to upgrade.

God, Fowler. There’s a thought Hank wants nowhere near his sex life fucking thank you. He bites his lip until he sees red. Grips Connor’s side so hard that the material of his shirt makes his skin look like it’s warping. Smearing. Flickering white and translucent for all of a heart stopping second.

“Hank,” Connor grunts. It’s muffled around Hank’s fingers but the sentiment is unmistakable. A visceral, heady thing.

Hank drags his hand from Connor’s face, trailing spit, it smears down Connor’s chin, messy, disgusting. Filthy. Fuck it’s filthy. The way Hank chases it with his own tongue, kissing it all back into Connor’s open, panting mouth. Filthy.

There are fingers on Hank’s dick, not quite warm enough to be Connor’s, clumsy as they push his erection free of his boxers, but the motion feels out of body. Autopilot. 

He opens his hand enough to squeeze his dick and Connor’s together. Rucks his shirt up under his armpits so their combined leaking won’t ruin the material. Soaked in his sweat but it could be worse.

Could be so, so much worse.

Connor—hot as he is, all the warm, unblemished skin—is dry, fresh as a daisy, not counting the precum dribbling from his cock. The lingering residue of his spit on his chin.

He isn’t sweating. His pupils are blown but his breathing is still even.

The wrong feeling in Hank’s gut compounds, spreading outward to his limbs like the icy air outside. Numbing.

Hank stares up at the ceiling of the car. The busted cab light he’s been meaning to fix for about six years now. The upholstery that has started to hang. Stuck in an era that is long, long past.

Stuck.

He feels and hears Connor moving around him, still grinding against him wantonly. Connor’s hand sliding across Hank’s belly. Hank’s sweat slick belly. Hank’s sweaty forehead. And his breath rising between them even in the interior of the car. His breath. Hank’s. Singular.

As in, as opposed to Connor and Hank’s. As opposed to Connor’s.

As opposed to—

“So you’re a fuckin’ android, huh?” Hank says.

He doesn’t expect an answer.

He stares at the ceiling of the car.

Connor’s weight, still pinning him in place, stiffens. The cock, nestled next to his twitches. Hank’s own erection has flagged considerably with his thoughts. He doesn’t know if any amount of coaxing will get it hard again tonight.

“Thought you all were supposed to have that little—“ Hank doesn’t know the word for it. “That light thing. The blinky temple thing.”

His gaze flickers down, meets Connor’s, before scanning his forehead. No blinky temple thing, Hank isn’t just crazy.

“Most androids are supposed to, yes.”

“But you don’t.”

Connor takes a breath. “But I do not,” he says.

“Why?”

“I removed it.”

“You allowed to do that?”

“Hank, I can explain, you know.”

“I ain’t asking you to explain shit. I’m asking if you’re allowed to do that. If you’re...if you’re allowed to-to fucking—“

“Please, Hank.”

“Don’t goddamn call me Hank,” Hank snaps. He’s sitting up now. Back to the freezing window, the cold cutting through the layers of his clothes like it is nothing. Freezing air on the back of his sweaty neck. “Don’t you fucking sit there lying to me and—“

“I’m not lying.”

Hank’s hands are around his throat. Normally his anger is easier to keep in check. All that broiling rage dulled over the years into a simmer, a grouchiness. A general unpleasantness.

Homicidal tendencies haven’t been in Hank’s wheelhouse since his promotion to Lieutenant.

But here he is.

Fingers locked over the trembling column of Connor’s throat. Interlaced. Thumbs digging into the trachea. Inhuman, shifting tendons beneath his palms.

“Who the fuck sent you?”

Connor blinks. His hands are holding Hank’s wrist. His back is bent nearly double from where Hank has flipped their weight. 

A human would be in pain, mewling, gasping for air.

Connor’s face doesn’t even register the discomfort.

“It’s not what you’re thinking, Lieutenant,” Connor says. Recorded vocal patterns not even adversely effected by the hands squeezing his throat tight enough to bruise. The metal and plastic vibrates under Hank’s hands. He presses harder, until the structure is groaning beneath him. “Please,” Connor says. “We don’t want to hurt you.”

We.

Hank’s mind flies over the hundreds of cases he’s worked over the years. King pins and murderers and gang bangers. He tries to think of any with android connections. He tries to place Connor’s face, model number. But he’s woefully under-studied in the android arena, purposefully avoids them and cases with them and all that shit.

“We thought it would be—“

Hank shakes Connor hard enough his perfect, straight, android teeth knock together. His head hits the window behind him with a sickening crack.

“Enough ‘we’ shit. Who the fuck are you, Connor? Who are you working for?”

“No one.”

Hank opens his mouth to respond but Connor continues, cutting him off before he can.

“That’s the point, Hank. That’s the point. We don’t...we don’t work for anyone. Anymore.”

“Deviants.”

“Free-thinkers. Free people.”

“You’re a fucking machine.”

Connor’s expression hardens. “And you’re a filthy animal who let your guard down for some cock. Which is the greater sin here, Lieutenant Anderson?”

Hank’s fingers drop away. Connor has a point. Both their dicks are still out, accentuating it. Blushing, ashamed all over again, Hank tucks his away.

“So you’re gonna—what? Kill me?”

“Our group doesn’t...it wasn’t the point. You weren’t supposed to realize.”

“You’re not a very good actor Connor.”

“I should have blown you in the bar. I miscalculated the adverse effects of the weather on the human body. I’m too warm right, for how cold it is?”

“It’s a lot of things. Lotta little things. Get the fuck outta my car, Connor. I’m not doing whatever the hell is it your stupid group needs.”

“I’m afraid I’m not asking.” Echoes of earlier. Connor swallows. His eyes narrow. “You’ll give me the codes for the precinct evidence room. And the security alarms.”

“Like hell I will.”

Connor’s fingers twitch. All that nervous energy Hank had noticed before still bleeding out of him at the edges. Deviant. Fucking deviant. Hank should have seen it coming.

“All this show and for what? You were just gonna ask me for the codes once we’d fucked.”

“The precinct is closer than your home, warmer. The idea was to talk you into taking me there. Fucking me there. You can still. It’s not too late, Hank. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m not telling you shit.”

Connor’s fist slams into Hank’s jaw. Sucker punch. Hank barely has time to react or to brace before those mechanical knuckles are ripping across his skin. Plastic and metal meeting Hank’s tender flesh with a resounding smack. Hank’s head rocks back on his neck and this time it’s him hitting the window with a crunch.

Groaning.

“Fuck,” his hisses.

Connor pushes close, straddles him. Hank’s hand between his own. A threat in the angle of Hank’s wrist, tendons stretching, just beginning to strain. Hank wriggles, useless under Connor’s weight. The cramped space of the backseat too claustrophobic to fight back properly.

Connor bends Hank’s wrist further. The muscles being a chorus of pain, lancing and burning its way down Hank’s whole arm.

“I’ll do it,” Connor says. “I’ll keep breaking bones until you talk, Hank.”

“Stop calling me that,” Hank grits. “Fuck you.”

Connor barely so much as twitches. His expression never changes. One of Hank’s fingers is suddenly backward, bent up toward his face.

He has just enough time for the thought to surface—that Connor started with his pointer and not his pinkie and must really, really mean business—and then the pain rises forth from the break like a tidal wave. Crashes over Hank’s conscious in a screaming, all-consuming rush.

He’s had worse. Been shot. Been stabbed.

But the methodical, almost clinical way Connor deals out pain—and he isn’t supposed to be able to do that either, supposed to be against his code, against all their coding, against Machine Ethics itself—is more harrowing than any of Hank’s other experiences combined.

He yells.

He swears.

He doesn’t talk.

He doesn’t talk.

He doesn’t.


End file.
